Paint My World
by Drawn-onEyebrows
Summary: It started with a single thornless, red rose. Slowly the grey was wiped away and my world was filled with colour once again. USUK one-shot Arthur's POV.


It started with a single thornless, red rose. Slowly the grey was wiped away and my world was filled with colour once again. USUK one-shot Arthur's POV.

_Beta'd by the awesome Ace Axe Hillson and thenamesiggykirkland_

**Disclaimer: Don't own Hetalia. What of it?**

Everything is cold and dark. Everything is always cold and dark here. The sky is full of rain cloud - all around it's dark and devoid of colour. My light left long ago. Why would anyone want to stay with a gloomy, old country like me?

I am the United Kingdom. A dreary old island nation; I am an island draped in grey. As the other nations are drenched in sunshine and colour, I remain dark and sombre. Monotone. Boring. Ugly.

As usual, the meeting today was hectic. Germany struggled to keep the noise to a minimum and stop the stupidity that spouted from the lighter-hearted nations. Italy as usual, was babbling about food whilst China was withering under Russia's gaze. The only thing unusual was the silence coming from the world's 'hero'. He was quietly clicking his pen and staring at the thick wooden table. Something was off. The American was usually extremely active in conversations, often inputting his ridiculous ideas and radiating colour and brightness through the room.

Throughout the meeting, I couldn't concentrate. My mind kept wandering towards America. What was bothering him? What cloud covered the ever-shining sun of a nation?

The meeting ended rather peacefully - or well, as peaceful as the world meetings would ever be. I managed to avoid the lewd jokes France made before swiftly packing my belongings and fleeing from the scene.

The city walls looked grey. Everything always seemed to look grey in my eyes; everything but that one ball of sunshine. Now, even he lacks his colour, the world was greyer than ever before.

I am not, technically, immortal, and I don't understand why humans would wish for it. We grow not old while those around us wither up and die - in my centuries of life, I've seen so much, felt so much and wished for so much more. But in all those years, many more were spent engulfed in pain and despair than joyful liveliness. Sometimes I wish I could just disappear. Death seems so inviting.

Alas, I cannot die. My duty binds me to this world - until my nations is dissolved, I remain chained here. But sometimes, I wish to be human: to go to school; to meet new people; to have kids (Sealand doesn't count)... and to find love.

Love. Love is something I want to have. I know people love me as their country, but I want more than that. I want a love that is for me as a person, something that will envelope me in warmth and fill my world with colour. I am sick, sick of the grey.

The walk back to the hotel was quiet and short. When I entered my room, I tossed my shoes off and leapt into bed, suit be damned. I was tired, so very tired. My eyelids drooped shut and before I noticed, I was lead into a dream-less slumber.

I awoke to a rapping at my door. Groggily, I got out of bed and stumbled to answer it, mumbling curses under my breath. When I opened the door, I was surprised to find no-one there. The hallwaywas silent and empty. I concluded it was a prank, and went to shut the door but, then I spotted a single bright red rose lying on the floor in front of me. I bent down for a closer look only to discover it was thornless and freshly cut. All the velvet petals where intact and perfect. This one rose seemed to glow in the poorly lit hallway. _That __frog must be playing around again, _I told myself before I could let my mind wander.

Roses are a personal favourite of mine - my national flower, in fact. They are such delicate things. Red, white, yellow, pink; roses come in a plethora of colours including the seemingly unachievable blue. Each colour symbolises something different. A deep lying passionate love is represented by red; cleanliness and purity is shown by white; joyful energy is represented by yellow and pink stands for appreciation or thanks. But despite the beautiful blossom, a rose is covered in thorns; a perfect balance of beauty and danger.

I filled a mug with water and in went the rose. It was a small blotch of colour in this world so ugly and grey.

The next day was the second meeting in a chain of three. I took my usual spot next to the usual people. Everything was normal - everything besides America. Yet again he was quietly clicking his pen and staring at the wooden table. Resting my cheek on my hand, I watched America continuously clicking the pen in no certain pattern. It was somehow mesmerising just watching the younger do something as simple as clicking a pen with his thumb. He must have noticed my gaze as he looked up and finally smiled that cheeky smile at me. Were the clouds finally parting?

I hastily looked away and pretended to be paying attention to the speaker, whilst willing the blush to fade from my cheeks. Oh, the embarrassment of being caught staring at America, _the _United bloody States of America - and he'd smiled! I could feel butterflies creating a storm in my belly. Was that smile for me? Does the grumpy old me deserve such a beautiful smile? Suddenly that warm glow of sunshine turned into a blinding golden light in this grey world.

America returned to his usual bumbling self after that incident, and the meeting carried on smoothly (as smoothly as it could). When it finally finished, I quickly packed my belongings and left, just as usual.

I was still jittery when I reached my hotel room. Just thinking about that one smile warmed my cheeks. I always watched that smile from a distance as it was aimed at someone else or at no one in particular. When it was for me, it was more bright and beautiful than the others. I felt as if I could go blind in the light.

Once inside, I sat my briefcase down on the desk and began sorting out papers from the meeting. A little while later I heard a tapping at the door. I glanced briefly at that one thornless, radiant red rose, still resting alone in its make-shift vase, before getting up from my seat to open the door. There was no-one there, yet again. The hallway was dark and empty. I looked to the floor and another bright red, perfect rose was lying there on the grey carpet. I bent over to pick it up, smiling to myself when I realised that just like yesterday, it was thornless. Two, vivid, red roses then sat in the mug.

I couldn't help the curiosity that came with the roses. Was the frog really playing tricks again? Was this a random act of kindness? Did someone fancy me? Maybe it was best I didn't discover who the roses were from? I ended up doing no work that evening, too busy reeling over this mystery person and the roses that were adding such a beautiful splash of red into my otherwise colourless life.

The next day was the last of the meetings. As usual, I sat between the same two people and the voices were loud as usual. But something was _unusual_. America wasn't present today. I presumed he was late but as the meeting dragged on, my hopes of seeing him that day slowly dissolved. _I guess I won't be seeing that smile today, _I thought, and I couldn't help but be disappointed. Without America, the meeting was boring and grey.

After the meeting finished, I wandered the dark city streets. It was my last day abroad before returning to my rainy capital. As much as I had liked to, I couldn't drink as I needed to be up early the next morning. Everything in the city was grey from the pavement to the buildings to the people. Even the sky appeared grey. Flashy billboards appeared nothing more than smudges of faded colour here and there. The city bustle was silent in my ears. My light didn't appear that day.

It was late evening by the time I made it back to the hotel. I walked the empty hallways when something caught my eye. Right in front of my door, lay another bright, red rose. One velvet petal had come loose and sat daintily on the floor. Out of habit, I bent down and noticed, same as with the previous ones, the rose was thornless. Even if my light didn't show that day, the glow of three, red roses in a mug was enough colour for me.

That night I lay in bed thinking. Thousands of thoughts raced through my mind keeping me from drifting off. Where was America today? Who keeps placing roses outside my door? _Will __I still get roses when I go back home? _That next morning, I boarded my flight back to London gently clutching the three, thornless, red roses.

It was raining in London. I watched as families hugged loved ones and as old friends clapped each other's back in a friendly embrace. No-one was waiting for me at the airport. I took a taxi back home. The trip was silent as I watched the dark scenery blur past the window.

I stood in the rain just staring at my house. I couldn't bring myself to move. Rain always dampened my mood and washed away the sunshine. It was the same 230 years ago; gone with the rain.

Who knows how long I stood there getting soaked to the bone. The once perfect roses had been ruined in the hustle and bustle of the airport. The once vibrant red had faded to a more subtle dark red. Of course, the rain washes everything away - everything but memories.

My knees buckled and I fell on the dirty, leaf-covered path. Why? Why am I like this? Why is my world this ugly grey colour? What did I do to deserve this torture? I looked to the dark sky and let out a choked sob. Rain mixed with tears before they rolled down my cheeks and fell to the earth. I cried right there in front of my house, not caring who saw or heard. My horrid wailing was drowned out by the rain as it poured down throughout London.

All good things must come to an end, they say. And that is absolutely true: empires fall, people die, flowers wilt, _roses _wilt. I didn't want it to end; I didn't want to come home to an empty house. There was no one waiting for me within the cold, wooden walls. Why won't the grey just go away? I don't want to live in a world so cold.

I see people smiling, laughing, loving, coming home to a family and a loving wife. Smiles and expressions dance across their faces as they move through their short lives. There's a hole in my heart that wishes for the warmth of another being. Someone that will hold me when I'm feeling down; someone who will greet me with a meaningful smile; _someone who will __love me for what I am._

I had a good cry before I wiped the water from my eyes using my rain-soaked coat sleeve. It was then I saw it on my doorstep; right there, on the doorstep, was a bright red, perfect rose. The rose lay there, untouched and dry. It beckoned me forwards and for a second, I forgot everything else in the world besides that one rose. That small splash of colour got me off my knees and into my house. I stripped off my wet clothing and bundled myself up with a blanket before finding a vase to put the three not-so-perfect roses and one, bright red, perfect rose.

The next day was spent peacefully, doing household chores and indulging in a bit of needle work. It was mid-afternoon when I heard rapping at my front door. "Hold on, I'll be right there!" I called as I set my needlework down, got up from the couch and jogged to the front door. As I gripped the doorknob, my heart soared at the thought of another perfect, red rose to add to my growing collection. I slept well that night with five, not-so-perfect but still beautiful, red roses at my bedside.

My week continued this way. The sun began peeking out from behind the clouds. Every afternoon I was greeted by a thornless red rose at my door step. The roses bled colour into the room and wrapped their way into my heart. Soon I began looking forward to the next day.

This continued for eight days, and, the grey world seemed to be a little brighter with each rose that came.

On the afternoon of the thirteenth day, the sun was shining. I took the opportunity and tended to my garden. It looked spectacular with the morning dew hanging off the leaves and petals.

That day was unusual. I didn't get just a thornless, red rose; I got an idiotic, blue-eyed American with it.

"America?" I looked up at the blushing American, wide-eyed. His lips were pursed together in a tight pout. Why was he here?

I soon found out.

He didn't say anything but, I knew exactly what he meant.

Roses by the Numbers

_A single rose of any color depicts utmost devotion__Two roses entwined together communicate "Marry me"__Six Roses signify a need to be loved or cherished__Eleven roses assure the recipient they are truly and deeply loved__Thirteen roses indicate a secret admirer_

_Hello peasants. I hope you enjoyed my fanfiction! If you would like further information on rose colours and meanings, go here: _ .


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